Category: Diary

Mum always said I should have been an accountant ’cause I have a good head for numbers so maybe if I start now I should have the whole team list memorised by next season.

Then again she may have meant something else entirely.

Tonight the Combined Idiot Foundation of Newport (ie the neighbours) were smoking themselves to death outside my window and commenting on how they were trying to get people to come back each year to look at their Las Vegas impersonation tack-a-rama light display by adding new ‘features’ (as it is if they add any more they will need their own substation). They then complained how one bulb had knocked out half their display when it blew.

They really should learn how to whisper.

Seeing as the fairly-light fairy has skipped over our place I got to thinking we should do our own display . Why not draw some inspiration from a Christmas classic; letters a metre high that spell out ‘BAH, HUMBUG’ would do nicely.

I used ICQ a few years ago but haven’t been IM’ing for ages. Today I got around to setting up a Windows/MSN Messenger account so if you’re online I’m awmalloy @ hotmail . com

Anyone remember the few paragraphs I wrote that were the start of a story I will never write?

Well, I’ve written the next few paragraphs.

Sitting at the lights leaving work today when a taxi driver started honking me ’cause I didn’t move off as soon as the lights changed to green. Honking became more frequent as I resolutely stayed still.

I wonder if he even noticed the fire engine race through the intersection, lights flashing and horns blaring. The same fire engine I’d been watching since I pulled up. Then again, maybe he was blind and deaf. Might explain his driving too.

Further excitement a little further down Wattletree Rd when a young girl on a bike slipped on the tram tracks right in front of me and went sprawling across the road. Thankfully I can see and could stop in plenty of time. She hopped straight back on, no damage done except to her pride. Must admit, it was a very graceful fall as far as falling off bikes go. I’d have given her a 8.5 out of 10.

Got it!

Please excuse me for the next 6 hours, I’m watching Popart.

You may notice I am sitting at a computer.

This means I am not sitting on the couch with a Pepsi watching PopArt.

Okay, EMI Australia – not only do you have the worlds suckiest copy protection you now have release dates on which you don’t release anything.

GIVE ME MY DVD!

It’s been a week of chair dancing since I saw the announcement, but today is the day.

PopArt is released on DVD.

It’s every Pet Shop Boy video clip, in order, with an additional commentary track that runs through the entire DVD.

I know I’m not going to be able to help myself. I’ll skip straight to ‘Being Boring’ and watch that, oh, a hundred times or so. Quick flick to ‘So Hard’ and then back to the start to run through them all. Once that’s over it will be time to watch the whole thing again with the commentary on and then once more to watch them without the commentary but knowing the background. That’s most of Saturday gone. Sunday may be a case of rinse and repeat.

And Mum, if you’re reading this, don’t e-mail and complain that you could have got it for Christmas for me. There is no way I could last twenty days knowing this DVD was available and not have it. I was tempted to take an annual leave day just so I could start hunting for it at 9.00 am.

It is with great sadness that I announce the passing of my most beloved key chain attachment. After almost ten years of dedicated service my little Maglite broke today.

Its once shiny black had rubbed away to not so shiny silver and it had had a bulb replacement performed recently but was still working away, illuminating the darkest sockets of computers around Melbourne.

Purchased duty free in Hong Kong many years ago it lead a long life. It had searched for photos in Vietnam, read books on a train through the Rockies and helped find a remote control in a hotel room in San Fransisco. It is survived by its brother, my key chain Swiss Army knife.

No flowers by request.

The other night we were sitting having dinner when Phee holds up her hand.

“This is the rude finger.” says Phee pointing at her middle finger.

Oh dear.

“Why is it the rude finger Phee?” we ask, dreading any answer that may come back.

“Because it’s the longest.” came the reply and a look that implied we were idiots for not knowing that at our age. I wonder if that piece of knowledge came from the same kid who told her ‘gay’ means ‘love’.

Ah well, it’s December 2 and no school yard Scrooge has spilt the beans on Mr Ho Ho Ho yet, fingers (even the rude one) crossed.